The world is such an empty place; a desert for the soul.

For one such as I, who’s unwilling to lie,

And accept less as whole.

Look in my eyes: they are too deep; they hold too many dreams.

Optimists are tyrannical tragedists,

Eroding the bends of soul-streams.

A cliff’s not an inviting thing; though to eyes a vision.

Yet who but the maker’s willing to go there,

And glean the artists’ precision?

Every stroke of the paintbrush blushes touch and reason.

Feel the colors on skin; immerse yourself in,

And understand in season.

Breathe in my inner world of thoughts; hold my soul in your hands.

See and judge me, for as long as you’re with me,

Love forms in these dream-lands.

The world I own becomes a home; refuge and masterpiece.

For without a hand, or one to understand.

The brushstrokes will ne’er cease.

The cliff of my impassioned soul; I’ll one day dive from it.

In sea-colors I’ll fall, and laugh, sing, and bawl,

‘Til I drown in the depths of it.

For there is too much I think of, and too much I can feel;

And there aren’t enough painters who’ll paint from the waters,

To create what I feel.

The world is such an empty place; a desert for the soul.

For one such as I, who feels too much to lie.

I must express my soul or die.

K. Aldaya, 2/3/15

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